


despite the abundance of it

by ashers_kiss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (I'm starting to see a pattern here...), (kind of), Additional Warnings Apply, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then there’s metal fingers curling over his wrist, cold against his too-fast pulse – not holding him down, just…<i>there</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	despite the abundance of it

**Author's Note:**

> [sholio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio) requested "Sam/Bucky, grounded" for [such_height's MCU kissing fest](http://such-heights.dreamwidth.org/459287.html), and I mean. It's a kissing fest. It's Sam/Bucky, and I am _weak_.
> 
> Also for [amine-eyes](amine-eyes.tumblr.com), who got herself a new job the other week! ...Even though I asked her to look over it. ¬_______¬ Which she did, because she's a star. (When she's not being _pure evil_ , that is.)
> 
> We'll just ignore how late this is, on all counts...
> 
> Additional warnings for Sam's own trauma, and the explicit aftermath of nightmares directly relating to it. Also, amine-eyes said he strikes her as kind of disassociative here, which I guess he is, though it was unintentional. If you feel like that's something you can't read, or need to know more about first, please, take what care you need to, and please feel free to contact me for details.
> 
> Also posted [here](http://such-heights.dreamwidth.org/459287.html?thread=8302871#cmt8302871), at the fest (which you should check out!).
> 
> Title from [a poem by Richard Siken](http://dark-siren.tumblr.com/post/112784786296/we-have-not-touched-the-stars-nor-are-we) (which is so very perfectly _them_ ).

Sam jolts awake.

There’s no other word for it. He’s left sucking in air, still tense, still braced for the impact of the dream dumping him on his ass. It’s always the same, these dreams – nightmares – the one from Riley’s perspective, where he watches himself get smaller and smaller, useless as he – Riley – falls, and all Sam can ever think is, why aren’t you _helping_ him?

Sam tries to breathe, swallow back the adrenaline choking thick in his throat.

Then there’s metal fingers curling over his wrist, cold against his too-fast pulse – not holding him down, just… _there_ , and for just a moment, the weight on Sam’s chest lifts. “Hey,” Bucky says. His voice is low, rough with sleep (Sam’s proud of that, somewhere, that they’ve reached a stage where Bucky _can_ sleep that deep, even if he wakes as fast as he ever did). “You with me?”

Sam nods, but it takes him another couple of minutes to force out a, “Yeah.” Bucky waits with him, keeping quiet, and Sam doesn’t need supersoldier eyesight to know he’s being watched. He just keeps on staring at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to crawl back, away, and his heart to calm.

Yeah, apparently that’s not happening tonight.

He pushes himself up, Bucky’s hand sliding from around his wrist as he gets to his feet. “’M gonna take a shower.” He barely hears Bucky’s, “’kay,” but he hears his feet hit the floor. He doesn’t follow him into the ensuite, though – Bucky never follows him, waits for him to come back, and it makes something bittersweet in Sam’s chest ache whenever he thinks about it.

He stands under the cold water until his skin pebbles up in goosebumps, till the sand washes out of his mouth. He lets the water beat down on the back of his neck until he closes his eyes and only sees black, until he’s convinced himself that’s why he’s shaking.

When he drags himself out, it’s to a made bed and sweats and a hoodie (one of Bucky’s; it’s way too big and the cuffs are fraying, especially the left, but it’s warm and soft and smells of metal and the strawberry shampoo he stole from Natasha) placed on his side. Sam makes himself breathe.

Bucky’s already starting up Netflix when Sam stumbles into the living room. There’s two mugs on the coffee table; tradition suggests cocoa. Sam really, really hopes they still have the mini mallows from last time. “Mean Girls or Hairspray?” Bucky asks without looking up, frowning at the screen.

“Oh God, no singing,” Sam says, easing himself on to the couch. His nerves are still scraped too raw for so much _cheer_.

Bucky shrugs, but Sam’s pretty sure he’s smiling.

Later, tucked up against Bucky’s left side with the blanket his aunt made wrapped around them, Sam feels the last of the sickly rush drain away. He presses his face against Bucky’s shoulder and lets cold metal wash away the last of the desert. He still aches everywhere, and there’s a dryness to his mouth that even the cocoa isn’t chasing, but’s he’s _here_. “Thanks.”

Bucky hums, and then there’s lips against Sam’s temple, soft and dry and achingly gentle. His hair tickles Sam’s face, and Sam doesn’t care.


End file.
